


Hard Restart

by darkavengerz (darkavenger)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 11
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 17:31:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2317616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavengerz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during Season 11 sometime before Felix shows up.<br/>Church is gone, and Wash is in charge. Everyone struggles to adjust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard Restart

“Seriously Wash, do you ever sleep?”

Wash blinks, jerks alert. “What?”

Tucker stares at him from through narrowed eyes. He’s leant against the doorway, dreads loose and pajama pants hanging dangerously low on his hips. Wash should probably just be grateful he’s wearing clothes at all. “Never mind. I take it back, you do sleep. You just sleep in full body armour. In the kitchen. Because that’s not weird or anything.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Wash protests wearily, leaning forward to grab his coffee mug and pull it against his chest. He can feel Tucker’s judgemental stare on him, sense the vaguely hostile attitude of the other solider prickle over his awareness. Tired of the scrutiny, he stares down into the liquid depths of his coffee, uneasily pressing the mug against his gloved palms and hoping that some of its warmth will seep through. “I was just…” he fumbles for an explanation for his seeming inertia, finishes lamely, “thinking.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Tucker says, his obvious disbelief only matched by his disinterest. Wash is lucky it’s morning, and Tucker doesn’t like to start seriously fighting with him before he’s eaten. Moving sluggishly, the other soldier walks over to the kitchen counter and selects a rations pouch from their rapidly dwindling supply, before returning to his original line of inquiry: “I’m just saying; you’re always up later than me, and I’ve never gotten up before you. So, like, is not-sleeping another thing they taught you at Freelancer school, or is that just a you thing?”

“The only reason I’m always up before you is because if I left you to your own devices, you’d never get up,” Wash says, dodging the question neatly. He watches absently as Tucker crosses his arms across his chest like he’s trying to hug in some warmth, and leans against the kitchen side.

“I got up by myself today, didn’t I?” Tucker points out, cutting the pouch open and pouring his meal into a bowl.

“It’s… 09:25 am,” Wash says, pausing as he calls up the time/date function on his HUD display. His brow wrinkles under his helmet as he processes the fact that over half an hour has passed since he sat down at this table to drink his coffee. He had meant to call Tucker at nine. Carefully, he sets his mug of now-cold coffee down on the table, a sick feeling churning in his stomach at the realisation he’s been losing time. Again. “Goddamnit,” he swears quietly, resisting the urge to lean forward and rest his head in his hands.

“So, where’s Caboose?” Tucker asks, spooning up his oatmeal and blissfully oblivious to the fact Wash is having a very quiet breakdown at the breakfast table. “Don’t tell me he gets to sleep in.”

Wash takes a deep, calming breath and focuses on the question, shovelling down everything else - all the worry, frustration, the fear that he’s really going crazy, - shoves it all down and crams it in a box of stuff he’ll deal with at some unspecified point in the future. “Caboose is already up.” He’d made the other Blue recruit breakfast. It’d sort of become a habit, if only because Caboose was the only person Wash had ever met who could burn cereal. (“Not my fault! Not my fault!”)

“So?” Tucker says through mouthful of porridge, glancing round the kitchen. “Where is he?”

“I…” Wash falters. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Tucker says incredulously, actually pausing in his eating to give Wash his full attention. “Wow. You mean you lost him?”

“I didn’t lose him,” Wash protests. “I’m sure he’s fine. He’s probably just waiting for me to come and tell him what we’re doing today.”

“Yeah, right,” Tucker says, sarcasm dripping off of every word. “I’m sure he hasn’t wandered off and gotten himself into trouble. Fuck, man. This is hypocritical as shit! You’re always ragging on me to keep an eye on him, and then you go and drop the ball!”

“You’re right,” Wash acknowledges, pushing his chair back from the table and standing. “It’s my fault, so I’m the one who’ll find him. You can get started on cleaning the base while I look for him.”

“Aw hell no,” Tucker says, shaking his head. “I’ll come help you find Caboose. No way is he getting out of helping.”

“I wasn’t asking, Private,” Wash says.

“Neither was I,” Tucker replies, standing to put his bowl in the sink.

 

So that’s how Wash ends up spending his morning, searching the canyon for Caboose with Tucker. He probably should have just been firmer and have insisted that Tucker stay behind and do what he’s told, but really, Wash has to learn to pick his battles and this one just doesn’t seem worth fighting. Besides, he hadn’t expected this to take so long. They’re trapped, for God’s sake, penned in by the sheer faces of cliff and almost impenetrably thick jungle that flank all sides of the crash site, stranded on an unfamiliar planet. Where the hell would Caboose even have to go? But his radio’s turned off and they can’t find him anywhere, not in the area surrounding the Blue base, nor in any of the normal foxholes or alcoves that Caboose likes to go sit in sometimes, not in the tank, not in the remaining wreckage of the spaceship, and not even in Red base, visiting the Red soldiers as Caboose is prone to doing.

“You’re sure you haven’t seen him?” Wash asks Sarge again, trying to stay patient.

“No. Should I have? You been sending him round here to spy on me and my men?” Sarge asks, belligerently.

“Why would I have people spying on you?” Wash asks, with waning patience. “And why would I send Caboose if I wanted someone to spy on you? He’s not exactly good at keeping a low profile.”

“Well, he’s not doing a bad job of staying quiet right now, is he?” Grif says, snickering unhelpfully.

“I guess not,” Wash says quietly, trying to tamp down the rising anxiety he’s been experiencing this half hour as they cross more and more places off their list of places to check. He tries not to think about the other possibilities that aren’t on the list; Caboose wandering into the endless nightmare maze of interconnecting caves that tunnel through the cliffsides; Caboose deciding to ‘explore’ the jungle; Caboose, whose best friend up and left out of nowhere, deciding to try and go find him.

“Not cool, man,” he hears Tucker say, shaking his teal helmeted head disapprovingly at Grif.

“Well, thanks for all the help,” Wash says to Sarge. The sarcasm goes straight over the older man’s head. “Let us know if you see him, okay?”

“See who?” Simmons asks curiously, joining the conversation as he wanders over from where the Warthog is parked. 

“Caboose,” Wash says, turning to him. “You haven’t happened to see him, have you?”

“Actually, I -” Simmons begins, before Sarge cuts him off.

“Don’t go giving those Blues any information, Simmons! That’s giving succour to the enemy!”

“But sir -”

“No buts, soldier!”

“ _Sarge_. Shut up!” Wash loses the grip on his temper for a split-second. His shout echoes round the canyon, bouncing off the cliffs and amplifying, or so it seems. Everyone freezes, attitudes wary and grips on guns tightening. Sarge slowly gathers himself up, with an air of menace that suggests all hell will shortly break loose. Wash grinds his teeth. He doesn’t have time for this, for playing these stupid games with the Red team. He doesn’t have time to mollify Sarge, but he also doesn’t have time to argue. He forces the anger down, ignores Sarge and his ego for now, and asks as calmly as he can manage, “Where did you see him, Simmons?”

Simmons glances between him and Sarge awkwardly, then answers with hesitation, “... up on the cliffside overlooking Blue base.”

“Up there?” Wash asks, before he can stop himself. “What the hell was he doing up there?” he mutters, speaking to himself more than anyone else, before looking back to Simmons, some of his earlier anger bubbling up again as he asks, “And you didn’t think this was odd, Caboose up there by himself?”

Simmons shrugs, glancing helplessly at the others like they’re going to intervene and spare him from Wash’s wrath. “Maybe? I don’t know!”

“How in the hell should he know what you and your men do?” Sarge growls, hand curling lovingly around the forestock of his shotgun.

“Yeah, how’re we supposed to know it’s not just some weird Blue team thing, like a regular exercise regime?” Grif asks,“it’s not exactly like you ever fill us in.”

“Trust me, he doesn’t fill you in no matter what colour armour you’re wearing,” Tucker says.

“Bow chicka wow wow?” Grif asks doubtfully.

“Woah. Not cool,” Tucker says, sounding alarmed. “Firstly, that’s my thing. Secondly, that didn’t even work! I said he wasn’t filling me in, dipshit!”

Grif smirks, “My bad. Would you _like_ him to fill you in?”

Wash counts to ten silently as Tucker and Grif continue to squabble. Simmons and Sarge are unsurprisingly no help and join in the squabbling. Counting doesn't actually achieve anything other than wasting another ten seconds of his life. “Right. We’re leaving. Now, Tucker!” he adds, as Tucker ignores him in favour of continuing to argue with Grif.

“Alright!” Tucker spins round, “I’m coming already!” A muffled snicker from Grif’s direction, and Tucker points a finger warningly at Grif, “don’t even think about it, dude.”

“ _Tucker_.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tucker says, following Wash’s command with his usual amount of good grace.

“Yeah, bye, Private Bitch,” Wash hears Grif call gleefully behind his back, followed by a snarl of anger from Tucker, and Wash only just moves quick enough to stop him from lunging at the Red.

“Leave it, Private,” he says sharply, tightening his grip on Tucker’s arm. It’s ineffectual as an intimidation technique given the armour they’re both wearing, but it _does_ have the benefit of stopping him from grabbing Tucker by the neck and giving him a shake.

For a moment he’s worried Tucker’s not going to listen to him at all, and there’s a pause, while Tucker stares at him, orange visor as opaque and unreadable as ever, before he grudgingly drops his gaze. “Yeah, yeah.” Tucker jerks his arm out of Wash’s hold and stalks stiffly away from him and Grif.

“Oh, you’ve really got him whipped,” Grif says, sounding amused.

Wash doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. He just coldly stares the orange soldier down until Grif coughs and moves away, turning back to Red base and muttering something about Blue assholes not being able to take a joke. Wash lets it go, then walks over to where Tucker’s waiting.

“Come on Tucker, lets go get Caboose.”

 

Caboose turns out to be right where Simmons said he would be, sitting high up on a ledge overlooking the entire canyon, and Wash’s heart sinks as he recognises the spot from where they’d found the sniper-rifle left behind by Epsilon-Church.

“...and then he’ll come back, and we’ll make lots of pancakes, and he can have chocolate sauce on his, and I can have ice-cream on mine, and he can help me use the oven, so’s it won’t catch on fire like the last time…”

Wash sighs as they draw within earshot, approaching the ledge from the narrow pathway that leads up the side of the cliff, and he catches his first snippet of Caboose’s constant chatter. Unsurprisingly, the subject of Caboose’s thoughts seems to be the missing Blue team leader, though what exactly Church has done to inspire such devotion in Caboose is beyond Wash. Honestly, the guy had always struck Wash as kind of a tool, and an incompetent leader to boot, but to hear Caboose talk you’d think the guy had hung the moon.

“Oh! Hello,” Caboose says brightly, breaking off from his endless listing of activities that he apparently has planned for Church’s return as he spots his other teammates clear the rise.

“Agent Washington! What a pleasant surprise to see you here,” Caboose says, nodding to himself, then adds with less enthusiasm, “and you brought Tucker. Hi Tucker.”

“Yeah, don’t act too pleased to see me,” Tucker says sarcastically, from where he's stood behind Wash.

“Okay! I won’t!” Caboose says, before looking back to Wash. “So, what are you guys doing up here?”

The question is asked with such innocence that Wash doesn’t really have the heart to stay angry, especially since a lot of his anger had been tied up in worry, and now, seeing Caboose safe, sound and happy, Wash can’t stay mad. “We were just looking for you, Caboose.”

“For me?” Caboose asks, cocking his head to the side wonderingly.

“Yeah for you, dumbass,” Tucker says; obviously he hasn’t forgotten his annoyance at having to trudge all over the canyon as easily as Wash. “You know you’re not allowed to just wander off like that.

“Tucker’s right, Caboose,” Wash says gently. He doesn't want to be too firm with Caboose, who has the tendency to crumble like an extremely fragile cookie at the slightest sign of sternness from Wash, which, _again,_ begs the question of how Caboose can stand to be around Church for extended periods of time, when caustic is probably the nicest word that can be used to describe the erstwhile Blue leader. “We’ve wasted a lot of time looking for you that could have been spent running drills or on maintenance.”

“Actually, I take it back, wander off whenever,” Tucker says, "I'd rather hunt you down anyday than scrub the fucking base floor one more time. I've never spent that long on my knees in my entire life.”

“ _Yes_ , and that all sounds very important and very interesting,” Caboose says gravely, head bobbing up and down, “but I thought that instead of doing any of those things you just said, I would come up and wait for Church to come back.”

Wash doesn’t even know what to say to that, his stomach dropping at the hopeful, eager tone in Caboose’s voice. He’d rather navigate a literal minefield than the emotional one that is Caboose right now. Before he can even begin to formulate some kind of response to that, Tucker speaks.

“You know that’s fucking stupid, right? I mean, even for you. He’s been gone since we got here, and who know’s if he’s even planning on coming back!”

Wash winces internally, sure that Tucker’s brutal honesty is going to utterly crush the fragile flower that is Caboose’s happiness.

Caboose shrinks back a little at Tucker’s tone, and it shouldn’t be possible for a guy as big as Caboose and wearing that much body armour to look small, but Caboose somehow manages. “Church wouldn’t leave forever, Tucker. That’s a really long time. He’ll come back. You’ll see.” Caboose looks up at them with a quiet, unshakeable serenity.

It’s Tucker’s turn to deflate, the anger draining out of him in the face of Caboose’s unflappable faith, leaving behind only a tired resignation in its place. “Yeah, well, not all of us have your confidence in the guy, Caboose.”

Wash stays quiet and tries to meld into the background. It feels like he’s intruding on something, some private grief he just doesn’t share and feels horribly inadequate to try and deal with. People haven’t looked to him for emotional support since his Project Freelancer days, and yeah, look how well that turned out.

“Aw, well,” Caboose shrugs sheepishly and hugs his knees to his chest, looking out over the canyon, “I guess you just don’t know Church like I do.”

“Shut up,” Tucker says, though his words lack heat. “He’s my best friend too, you know.”

“Well,” Caboose says doubtfully, “I don’t know about that. I mean, the position of best friend has already been taken, and I made friendship bracelets so it’s official, but I guess you can be his second best friend.”

“Wow,” Tucker says, “thanks. I’m honoured.” He sighs, then moves past Wash, who’s still desperately trying to pretend he’s part of the scenery, to drop down next to Caboose. “Seriously? Friendship bracelets? You get that Church is a hologram, right? He doesn’t have wrists anymore.”

“Oh no,” Caboose ducks his head, “I know. I just wear them both.”

Tucker shakes his head, but doesn’t comment.

“What are you doing?” Wash asks Tucker, confused enough to drop his imitation of an inanimate object routine.

“What does it look like?” Tucker says, leaning back on his elbows so he can look up at Wash,“I’m sitting down with Caboose. You got a problem with that?”

“Well - no. I guess not.” Wash feels like they’re already dodged one emotionally devastating bullet today where Caboose’s feeling are concerned; he’s unwilling to risk upsetting the younger Blue soldier, even if that means letting Tucker slack off.

“Yay!” Caboose bounces in place, “this is gonna be so cool! It’s going to be me and Tucker, Church’s best friend and second best friend! We can talk about how cool Church is together!”

‘Yeah, or we could _not_ do that,” Tucker says firmly.

“So! Fun!” Caboose says, still bouncing excitedly. “Agent Washington! Are you going to sit with us and wait?”

“Yeah, Wash,” Tucker says, challenge in his voice. “Do you think you can handle just chilling out for once?”

Wash isn’t going to rise to the bait. “I don’t think so. Someone needs to be actually be doing something around here, and that com tower’s not going to fix itself.”

“Okay, yes, but this is actually also a very important task, you see, Agent Washington,” Caboose says gravely. 

“You know, waiting around for him isn’t actually going to make him show up any quicker,” Wash says, trying to be gentle and feeling as subtle as a sledgehammer. “He’s not going to know you’re waiting for him, Caboose.”

“Oh, I know!” Caboose nods vigorously, “but if I get a lot of waiting done now, then tomorrow I won’t have to be sad, or do any waiting, and I can help you do all the things you like, Agent Washington! Like cleaning stuff and running, and yelling at people -”

“I don’t enjoy yelling at people!” Wash protests, cutting Caboose off.

“ _Sure_ you don’t,” Tucker says, voice laden with sarcasm.

“What? I don’t,” Wash says, injured.

“Then why do you keep doing a thing you don’t enjoy?” Caboose asks, sounding perplexed.

“That is a good question, Caboose,” Tucker says, looking at Wash.

“Thank you, Tucker,” Caboose says gravely, before looking expectantly up at Wash for an answer.

“ _Because_ -!” Wash fights down the urge to scream. He really shouldn’t have to explain himself. “Because, this is a military operation, Caboose. Because you’re soldiers, and I’m in charge. And,” he lets out a long, bone-rattling sigh of frustration, “because nobody ever listens to me unless I shout.”

“Have you tried asking nicely?” Caboose asks helpfully.

A choked-off noise comes from Tucker’s helmet that Wash is sure is a stifled laugh. He wishes he wasn’t wearing his own helmet so he can rake his hands through his hair the way he likes to do when he’s agitated. He clenches his hand closed instead, stilling the impulse. “I’m not sure that would work.”

“It might work better than yelling,” Tucker says pointedly.

Wash’s eyebrows raise inside his helmet. “You mean to tell me if I say pretty please, you’d run laps without complaining?”

“No, but maybe I wouldn’t tell you to fuck off so much,” Tucker says.

“I’m having a hard time believing Church used to ask you guys nicely,” Wash says dryly.

Tucker snorts, “Well, no, but two things: one, you’re not Church, and two, it’s not like we did what he said either.”

“Why can’t you just do what I tell you?” Wash asks.

“Why the hell should we?” Tucker counters.

“Because I have your best interests at heart,” Wash says, driven to the end of his patience. “Because whether you believe it or not, I care about you and I want to keep you all alive.”

“Yeah, well,” and Wash knows Tucker well enough to know the other soldier is rolling his eyes under the helmet, “we’ve managed to not die up until this point without having to run laps or do one-handed push-ups or what the fuck ever.”

“Yeah, well, forgive me for trying to prepare you,” Wash says bitterly, turning on his heel to leave.“Dumb luck’s got to run out sometime. I'd prefer for you to not be completely unready when it does.”

He starts to walk away, down the rocky path. If Wash doesn’t leave now, he’ll only say things that he’ll regret. He’ll start yelling, and he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop, put a lid back on the box of _things_ he’s carrying around inside him. So he clenches his hands closed tight and lets his feet fall heavy against the ground, the impact jarring up his legs and knocking the thoughts out of his head as he concentrates on keeping his footing on the steep descent.

“Wash! Wash, wait up!”

Pebbles bounce down from further up the path, pinging against his armour. He turns, awkward on the narrow path, to see Tucker, helmet under one arm, jogging down after him, heedless of the loose ground beneath his feet and the sheer drop to his side. “Tucker -” his cry of warning dies in his throat as the Blue soldier slips, loses his footing and lands square on his ass, sliding forward several feet. The helmet rolls to a rest at Wash’s feet.

“Shit!” Tucker looks up at Wash, eyes wide.

Wash bends gingerly to grab the helmet, then rises and silently offers his free hand to Tucker.

“Thanks man,” Tucker takes his hand and lets Wash help him to his feet. “That was close.”

“It was,” Wash agrees, in a neutral tone. He takes his hand back. There’s an awkward pause.

“Look,” Tucker breaks the silence, “why don’t you come back up to the ledge with Caboose and me?”

Wash keeps his voice carefully flat. “And why, precisely, should I do that?”

It's childish the flash of satisfaction Wash feels at the irritation on Tucker's face; familiar as the expression is, it's fun to put it there by choice for once. A muscle twitches in Tucker's jaw, which he's clearly fighting to keep clamped shut, and _that's_ unusual. Tucker's not much for subtlety when it comes to letting Wash know about his displeasure, so why is he holding back now? 

 “Caboose will worry if you don't come back,” Tucker says, voice modulated to almost match Wash's flat effect. 

“I didn’t realise you were so concerned about Caboose’s wellbeing,” Wash replies.

“Oh, I’m not,” Tucker scoffs, mouth twisting in disdain, “but I thought you were, y’know considering how much you _care_ about us and all.”

Wash flushes at Tucker’s needling. “I don’t see why my presence matters.”

Tucker looks at him, and this time Wash can’t decipher the expression that crosses his face. “Of course you don’t.” Sarcastic as ever, but without the angry inflection Wash is used to.

“I don’t,” Wash repeats, firmly. “I can be of more use working on repairs. That’s the course of action most likely to help us in our current situation. I’m… not that good at dealing with emotions.”

“No shit,” Tucker says, rolling his eyes, “you suck at emotions, dude.”

“ _Thanks_ ,” Wash says. Then, stiffly, "So you understand. You’re better equipped to deal with Caboose than me.”

“Nuh-uh,” Tucker says, shaking his head adamantly. “You want to be leader, you gotta deal with this shit as well. You might be able to just bottle up all the crap we’ve been through and function just fine, but the rest of us can’t. So fucking deal with it.”

Wash tilts his head, confused. “But you just agreed that I sucked at that emotional stuff,” he points out carefully.

“Well yeah,” Tucker snorts, “no argument about that. But why let that stop you? We sure as shit don’t.”

That's blunt enough to shock a half-laugh out of Wash, and he shakes his head. “Wow. You know, you _suck_ at this motivational speaking thing.”

A grin tugs at Tucker’s mouth. “Least I try.”

A sigh heaves out of Wash as he relents. “Fine.”

“Fine?” Tucker asks, grin spreading into his familiar shit-eating one.

Wash rolls his eyes. “I’ll come and sit with you and Caboose for the afternoon. If it’ll help.”

“Alright,” Tucker crows, celebratory. “A day off, that’s what I’m talking about.”

“Oh,” Wash chuckles, clapping Tucker on the shoulder warmly, “don’t think you’re not going to make up those drills tomorrow.”

“Aw man,” Tucker’s face visibly drops, “no way. You’re kidding, right?”

Wash lets himself grin, secure in the knowledge that it’s hidden behind his visor. “What do you think?”

“ _Shit_.”

“March, soldier,” Wash commands, still grinning as he gently shoves Tucker up the path.

“Yeah, yeah. Okay,” Tucker grumbles, as they begin the walk back up.


End file.
